


one-third right and two-thirds wrong

by TolkienGirl



Series: Vignettes of Valinor [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Gossip, Humor, Rumors, The Feanorians are the Regina Georges of Tirion, can you catch the tiny Hwarang reference? CAN YOU, pure unadulterated crack, title from L.M. Montgomery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18025001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Two elf maidens walk into the city square.





	one-third right and two-thirds wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mythopoeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythopoeia/gifts).



Laurelin is laughing among her gilded leaves, and the maidens of Tirion laugh with her. Here are two: they are young, and their gowns are as gay as flowers. They pace around the square—once, twice, and their laughter fades. There are passersby, of course, but no one to _really_ admire them. The couriers are too fleet-footed and the other women too preoccupied with their elflings. Where are the young men today? The maidens frown; they draw near the fountain, hoping against hope for the welcome surprise of company. They find no one save a harpist hunched at the water's edge, watching the crowds from beneath a faded grey hood.

The harpist looks to be a peasant—a servant cast-out, perhaps, for who else wear rags in Tirion?—and his shoulders are a little slumped.

Yet he is a harpist!

One lady sits down and fans herself with palmful of stitched-together leaves. “Laurelin shines boldly today.”

“Aye,” says the other. “I’ll ruin this silk.”

The first lady does not seem to care. She looks with longing at the instrument in the peasant’s hands. “Is not the second son of Prince Fëanáro a harpist? There, good sir—here is a coin for your troubles. Play us a tune!”

The ragged lump croaks his thanks, as if a frog has taken up residence in his throat, but one maiden is busy nudging the other.

“Ha! As if you did not know! You talk of little else but Makalaurë, the golden-fingered—”

“On more than the harp, I’m sure.”

“Hush! Who knows who will hear us? Thank you, sir, you would do well to play now—”

“His instrument is worn and crude. But my prince’s! It is as delicate as if it were strung with cobwebs.”

“I hear he braids the strings out of his eldest brother’s hair.”

A sigh, a swoon. “Ah, Prince Maitimo. Did Tatië tell you—”

“Tatië swears she danced with him at the High Feast, but I don’t believe her.”

“Tatië swears they did more than dance.”

“I don’t believe that either.”

“He is almost too beautiful to be a man. Some say he isn’t Fëanáro’s son at all, he’s half-Vala—”

“Which half?” Her friend is still skeptical. “You really think he doesn’t look like his father? And he has his mother’s hair.”   

“It must feel like silk.” The first maiden shuts her dewy blue eyes. “He would look so well in marriage braids.”

“Don’t tell Tatië.”

“Tatië says he isn’t ready to marry yet. But I think she’s just trying to keep him for herself.”

“As if he’d marry into such a low family!”

“Well, they all live outside the city, and I suppose they _are_ rather strange. Atar rode past once and said they were chasing one another about their yard like _hraváni_ , kicking some sort of golden ball, and they had set up giant nets—”

“And yet you would die to have one of them kneel before you and offer you his hand.”

“He needn’t kneel.” A dreamy sigh. “They’re _princes_.”

“Well,” her friend observes sensibly. “None of us shall have Prince Maitimo, I’m sure. You said it yourself, there’s too much perfection in him. Who could stand to marry a man whose _name_ declared him more beautiful than any woman?”

“Then what would you have us do?”

“Us? It’s every maiden for herself.” Yet, she pauses thoughtfully. “Ingratiate yourself to the harpist, perhaps. He always looks lonely at festivals.”

“Because he’s dreaming of new songs.”

“Or envious of his brothers.”

“A fie upon you for speaking of him so! Though, now that you mention it…Turcafinwë is rather lovely too. That golden hair…”

“If you want golden hair, there’s always the House of Arafinwë.”

“Second-rate.”

“Hush! Really, do hush. We’ll be dragged before the king!”

“For preferring his finest grandsons over any others? Nay, if that is to be my fate, let Turcafinwë do the dragging.”

“I thought you loved Maitimo.”

“I do, but he wouldn’t get his hands dirty.”

“Perhaps not. _Ai!_  Did you not give this man a coin? Play a little more, sir, we welcome the music.”

“The rest are too young.”

“Morifinwë is not.”

“Ugh, such a red face. Though his arms look strong…”

“I think you are a fool, to set your heart on any so proud. I heard that they mix their wine with blood.”

“Blood? Whose blood?”

“The blood of ravens. It’s why their lips are so red.”

“They are, aren’t they? Or maybe that’s just powder. Do you think they wear powder? Surely not.”

“Suit yourself and believe what you like.”

“I’ll believe anything, if it would bring such a husband to me.”

“Dear me, where _did_ the harpist go?”

* * *

 “You should have stayed longer, Káno. I would hear more of my charms.”

“Drink your raven blood, Maitimo.”

**Author's Note:**

> hravani = wild men


End file.
